


One Night in The Man-Hole

by beetle



Category: Deadpool (2016), Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Banter, Best Friends, Cinnamon Roll Peter Parker, D'oh!, Deadpool Thought Boxes, Deadpool being Wade, Deadpool is sometimes a Merc for Money, Elvis-Impersonator, Feels, Feisty Old Man Digs Wade, Feisty Young Man Digs Wade, First Kiss, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, First Time Bottoming, Flash is FIERCE, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Grenade-launchers, Humor, Lady Death - Freeform, Light Angst, M/M, Male Friendship, Mutual Pining, Peter Parker is Not Spider-Man Yet, Platypuses, Prompt Fic, Protective Wade, Rocket Launchers, Song Lyrics, Soviet Era-Weapons, Spideypool - Freeform, Stan Lee Cameo, Strip-Club AU, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Tropes, Virgin Peter Parker, Weasel is Smitten and in Denial, Weasel tends bar and sells Weapons, stripper peter, white - Freeform, yellow - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-26
Updated: 2016-09-26
Packaged: 2018-08-17 10:36:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8140843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: Wade Wilson is a part-time mercenary whose best friend/arms-dealer tends bar at The Man-Hole, a pretty downscale male strip-club that caters to gay men. Said best friend has been trying to get Wade to stop by and meet the “hot dancer” he’s had a crush on, for months. When Wade finally does stop by, he falls instantly and hard for that dancer. The aforementioned best friend is not gonna be pleased. Written for ImSoVain's prompt (mostly . . . I couldn’t square “I’m a Slave 4 U” with the tone of the fic; I’m sorry), in full in the end notes.Notes/Warnings: Strip-Club AU. Peter’s got his spidey-powers but isn’t a superhero. Wade is still the mercenary known as Deadpool. Sometimes, anyway. (And for once, I didn’t make Flash evil-incarnate . . . I know, right?! I must be running a fever, or something!::feels somewhat faint::)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ImSoVain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImSoVain/gifts).



[White]

{Yellow}

_Deadpool_

 

 

“Hey!” Weas crowed from behind the bar as Wade, dressed down in his darkest, most nondescript outfit of straight-legged blue jeans, zipped up navy hoodie—with the hood very much up—over a black Pink Floyd t-shirt, steel-toed shit-kickers, and a blue _Mets_ baseball cap, bellied grumpily, nervously up to the bar. Which was, despite the relatively early hour, sticky as _fuck_. White did _not_ approve. “You finally made it _out_ , bro! Congrats, you hermit-y, emo fuck!”

 

{Ha! He read _you_ like a cheap, paperback novel! Mm- _hmm_! Oh, yes, he _did_ , girlfriend!} Yellow sassed Wade brightly.

 

“Meh,” Wade grumbled at both Yellow _and_ Weas, sighing when he had to peel the sleeve of his hoodie off the bar just to shift his arm a little. “I was sicka hearin’ your yap about your little crush, every five minutes. _Fuck_ , but you’re not a sanitary bartender,” he added, dabbing his index finger in a puddle of alcohol with half a peanut sitting in it to make his point. “I’m tempted to get the Board of fucking Health up in this bitch.”

 

“Aaah.” Weas waved a dismissive hand. “You sound just like Fat Gandalf, now. _Waaah! How come there’s blood in these pretzels? Waaah! Why’s this booth smell like rotting meat? Waaah! Someone did six bathroom codes on the mirror in the men’s! Boo-hoo!_ ” Snorting, Weas swiped at the puddle of alcohol and its piece of peanut with a grimy towel, then used the same towel to clean a used glass with a cigarette butt at the bottom. “You want sanitary conditions? Go to a hospital. This’s a _cock-bar_ , Wade.”

 

“Yeah, I _know_ what it is, Weas. Just sayin’ standards couldn’t hurt, y’know? The fewer patrons get the Bubonic Plague from one of these surfaces, the better, right?” Wade made a face when Weas cracked open a Labatt and plonked it down in front of him. (He assumed Wade drank it because it _and_ he were proudly Canadian. The _truth_ was, Wade drank it because he was cheap when it came to alcohol these days, and didn’t see the point in spending money on actual booze when he couldn’t even get _drunk_.)

 

“Eh. Whatever. Mordecai doesn’t pay me enough to tend his bar _and_ keep it clean. Also, _the fuck do I care_ if some pre-vert gets the Plague?” Weas snorted again and poured himself a shot of something oily-looking, light-brown, and from the bottom shelf of the six behind the bar. He knocked it back after toasting Wade sardonically. “Anyway, it’s not like _you_ can get sick, so what’re _you_ worried about?”

 

“Nothin'. Just tryin’ to be an altruist. Today’s my day for doin’ random assholes favors, and I figured: _Why stop at Weas? Why not spread the piety?_ ” Wade tossed back half the Labatt while Weas chuckled and poured himself another shot of the same brown swill. “Just so you know, though, I’m not gonna stay long, so you better hope your boy comes on first, or close to.”

 

Weas made a snippy, purse-lipped face. “First off, he’s not a boy, he’s a _man_ , Wilson. All eight and a half inches of him. And second,” he added, smirking so smarmily, even Wade rolled his eyes. “ _Second_ , he _always_ goes on last. He’s like the main meal. All the _other_ dudes are just the _aperitif_.”

 

“The _what_?” Wade blinked blankly. White called him a _Philistine_ , and this time, Weas rolled _his_ eyes.

 

“Nothing, man. Anyway, yeah, he’s . . . Jeezus-pleezus, he’s so fuckin’ _fine_! Sculpted and sexy and pouty and— _unh_! I’m gettin’ a stiffy just _thinkin’_ about that sweet ass!” Weas not-so-subtly reached down to adjust his dick in his cargo pants. Wade sighed and tried not to think about the places Weas’s hand—or his crotch—had been since they were last washed. “Seriously, Wilson, ya _gotta_ hang out till he goes on! I promise you, you _won’t_ be sorry! You’re gonna be thankin’ me on your _death-bed_ for the show he puts on . . . y’know, assuming you ever kick-off, that is.”

 

“You’re so sensitive and discreet,” Wade mumbled, glancing around nervously, just in case someone nearby overheard. But it was still early. There were barely any patrons in the dim, slightly dank club. And most of them were at the scary-looking buffet near the entrance.

 

Wade shuddered. (Sure, he wouldn’t _stay_ _dead_ , even if poisoned. But death-by-buffet— _that buffet_ —would be an _agonizing_ way to go. And what would he tell Lady Death when he saw her after such an ignominious shuffling loose?

 

{Nothing that wouldn’t have her laughing her dead-ass off,} Yellow chimed in, giggling hysterically.

 

[It’s a fortunate thing that you ate before we left home,] White added almost approvingly. _Almost_.)

 

“I’m tellin’ ya, Wade, your jaw’s gonna hit the _floor_ when you finally see him. I mean . . . he’s just the _hottest_ guy workin’ here. Or _anywhere_. I even wanna . . . rub my dick in the crease of his elbow till I shoot my load on his _ribs_ , he’s so _gorgeous_. . . .” Weas sighed and Wade sat back, making a lemon-face.

 

“Okay, I’m not easily grossed-out, but _I_ just threw up a little in my mouth,” he said and Weas scoffed impatiently.

 

“Oh, don’t be such a Pollyanna, Wilson. _You’re_ a bigger pre-vert than _I_ am. You forget, I have proof of what you can do with some Vaseline, three cucumbers, an Elvis-impersonator, a stoned platypus, and the Union Jack from the British Consulate. You're, like, the fuckin' _MacGuyver_ of pre-verts.”

 

Wade’s eyes narrowed even as his scarred cheeks and ears began to burn.

 

{That was a _helluva_ good night!} Yellow recalled wistfully. Then: { _Heeeey_ , didn’t he say he was gonna _delete_ that video?}

 

“You said you were gonna delete that video, Weas,” Wade gritted out, pushing his hood back and off, and his cap up a little.

 

“I say a _lotta_ things, in case you hadn’t noticed.” Weas shrugged, then managed to smirk even while looking rather disturbed. Finally, he poured himself another cheap shot. “I _still_ see that shit in my nightmares. And on the rare, masochistic occasions I actually _re-watch_ it, I have to drink myself to sleep, afterwards, to forget. Not that _that_ ever _works_ , ‘cause . . . Jesus, man. You’re one twisted deviant and I’m ashamed—nay, _horrified_ —that I know you.”

 

“It was _one_ time. One. Damn. _Time_ ,” Wade insisted, his entire face on fire, now. More than usual, taking into account his always-aching, shit-show skin. “Some fuckin’ friend _you_ are, Hammer.”

 

“What _I’ve_ always wondered,” Weas went on absently, shot poised at his lips, “is how you got the platypus _back_ into the zoo with no one the wiser.”

 

“Trade-secret,” Wade said forbiddingly, glaring. Weas shrugged again. “And don’t make it sound pervy-er than it was. The platypus didn’t even _participate_. It was just there as an aesthetic and referential point.”

 

“Oh, well, then.” Weas sounded like he was trying not to laugh.

 

“ _Anyway_ ,” Wade said heavily, meaningfully, and now, Weas _did_ laugh, finally tipping back his rotgut-shot. “I’ll stay till your boy comes out and shakes his groove-thang. But I want somethin’ in return.”

 

Weas’s dark-blond brows drifted slowly up. “I’m listening. And hoping it’s not sexual favors.”

 

“Fifteen percent offa that Soviet-era grenade-launcher I was lookin' at last week. You know the one.”

 

Weas winced—and had the nerve to grimace, too. “ _Ugh_ , I think I’d have preferred the sexual favors.”

 

“It’d never work between us, Weas. We’re both exclusively tops.”

 

“Ha! You forget, again, my dear beta-male: _I’ve seen that video_. Of the two of us, _you’ve_ had more go _in_ your ass than _I’ve_ had come _out_ of _mine_!”

 

{Eeeeeew!}

 

[Well, _that_ was unnecessarily graphic.]

 

“Gross,” Wade said matter-of-factly, but didn’t deny any of it. “Whatever. I _don’t_ want sexual favors from you Weas. Just fifteen percent off that sweet, Ruskie shoulder-cannon.”

 

“Fine! Alright! And the fillings from my teeth, while you’re at it!” Weas capitulated rather quickly, almost smiling. “As if you’re doin’ _me_ the fuckin' favor, and not the reverse!”

 

“Just call it the friends-and-family discount.” Wade detached his stuck right arm from the sticky bar and shook the hand Weas held out.

 

“Yeah, whatevs, Trevs.” Weas huffed and watched Wade finish off his Labatt. “Want another? On the house ‘cause its shitty, cheap, and Canadian . . . like you.”

 

Wade’s smirk was slow and lazy. “Sure, why not? Only this time, I’ll have a tall glass of watered-down American piss . . . like _you_.”

 

Weas smirked back, and turned to pour Wade a Bud Light.

 

#

 

The DJ was older than God’s grandmother.

 

He started pumping up the jams shortly after Wade finished his third Bud, just a touch too loud for the club’s crappy speakers to handle well. There were sound distortions and feedback that the ancient disc jockey didn’t even seem to notice, as he bobbed his head off-rhythm. His big, cheap-showy sunglasses looked ridiculous in the murky club and kept nearly sliding off his face.

 

{Is that a _Medic-Alert_ bracelet on his wrist? Or just really lame bling?} Yellow wondered with creepy fascination. White simply didn’t care one way or the other, and held his peace.

 

“Damn, Stan _never_ has his hearing aid turned-up or tuned-in or whatever. At least not _right_. It’s always too low in here or too fucking _loud_ ,” Weas complained with the weariness of someone who wasn’t doing it for the first time and didn’t expect _this time_ to be the last, either. Wade grinned.

 

“Hey, _you’re_ the one who took a part-time gig in a skeevy cock-bar so you could get yo’ fill of, and I quote, _free eye-candy and man-meat_. How’s that workin’ out, by the way?”

 

Wade made a rueful face. “You wouldn’t _believe_ how many of the dudes that work here are actually _straight_. It’s . . . disappointing,” he admitted glumly, leaning on the bar.

 

“Aw, buck up, Weas. I’m sure a _few_ of ‘em are gay. Or at least bi. Law of averages and shit. But, hey—what about _your_ boy? The _hottest guy workin’ here_? ‘S _he_ battin’ for the home team?”

 

Weas perked up a little. Then a lot. “Oh, hey, _yeah_! _He’s_ as gay as the day is long, or my name isn’t Jack Aloysius Hammer!”

 

 _Aloysius?_ Wade thought, disdainfully. Then shook his head.

 

{No _wonder_ he tells everyone to call him _Weasel_!} Yellow snickered.

 

[ _Aloysius_ is a fine, old standard with an interesting history,] White noted, only for Yellow to cackle outright.

 

{Oh, yeah? So’s Ron Jeremy’s _dick_ , but I wouldn’t want any part of _that_ , either!}

 

[You’re so spontaneously crude, crass, and low-brow . . . like an eighth grader. . . .]

 

“You sure about that, my guy?” Wade asked, trying to tune out the now-arguing Boxes. “You’ve been wrong before.”

 

“Oh, I’m _pretty sure, compadre_. That boy _loves_ the D. _Craves_ it. Wants it so far up his ass he has to swab come outta his _ear_ - _canal_ , afterwards. Wants—”

 

“Okay, yeah, I got it.” Wade held up a silencing hand. “So, that’s at least a ray of light in this dark, dank, den of iniquity.”

 

“You’re not wrong.” Weas was smirking again. “And assuming things between us go like they _have_ been—all flirty and playful and shit—tonight might be _the night_ I finally get to hit that.”

 

Watching his best friend waggle his expressive eyebrows, Wade bit back an amused smile. “Oh, really? What makes you say that?”

 

“Just a feeling I have, Wilson. Not only does he set off my ‘dar, but my _Weasel-sense_ is tinglin’, too. I’m _tellin’_ ya . . . tonight’s my _night_. _Our_ night. I even cleaned my apartment in preparation.” Weas sounded smug and eager at the same time. Wade couldn’t help poking the other man with a stick, just because he could.

 

“ _You_? _Clean something_? Holy _shit_! This guy must be the Second Coming of Christ!”

 

Smirk-smirk-smirk, and Weas adjusted his sleek-framed glasses. “Close. By sun-up, he’ll be _coming_ for a _second_ time. Then a third. Then a fourth. Then a _fifth_. And callin’ me _Jesus_ the _whole fuckin’ time_.”

 

“Ugh.” Wade made another face and Weas chuckled, taking out his phone to check the clock.

 

“Lookit _that_ , time for the show to begin,” he purred, waggling his eyebrows again before groaning and making a face of his own. “That means Stan-the-Man’s gonna crank it up even _louder_ , any second, n—” Wade lost the rest of what Weas said as the music suddenly went from _annoyingly_ loud to _ear-splittingly_ loud.

 

This time, Wade was the one to smirk—worse came to worst, his blown-out ear-drums would heal in minutes—as he turned to face the stage, leaning back against the bar. The club had started to fill up some, with more patrons now at the tables and booths, than at the rancid, over-cooked buffet-o’-death. Mildly-attractive male servers hustled between the tables and the bar as Weas made drinks at his own pace, and watered them down liberally. Not that any of the patrons seemed to care. They all had eyes either for the stage, or the free and fatal buffet.

 

Some few patrons, like Wade, were at the bar, but none _close_ to Wade. Indeed, he was used to people giving him a wide berth, at this late date. In the five years since Weapon X, he’d done nothing _but_  unalive creeps, eat tacos, and get used to being ostentatiously avoided and pointedly ignored.

 

It didn’t even bother him anymore.

 

{Yeah, tell yourself that, buddy, and maybe you’ll actually _believe_ it in another five years.}

 

 _Shut up_.

 

“Good evening, gentlemen! _Wilkommen! Bien venue!_ Welcome to _The Man-Hole_! New York City’s _premiere_ gentlemen’s club for gentlemen who love gentlemen!” Stan-the-Man said into the microphone, which was also _way_ too loud.

 

Wade looked over his shoulder to whisper-shout snarkily at Weas: “So, are there _gentlemen_ at this fine establishment, or what?”

 

Weas barked out a brief laugh and proceeded to make three of his signature drink: the infamous _blowjob_.

 

A minute later, a cute Latino server who looked like Rico Suave, with pouty-lips, sullen eyes, and wavy-long hair, gave Wade an interested look before taking the drinks and hustling off. Very much with an extra jiggle in his wiggle.

 

“Ooh, I think Cruz’s lookin’ for some Canadian bacon to take home, tonight!” Weas said, loud and amused, though even if _Cruz_ had been standing five feet away, he wouldn’t have heard Weas over Stan-the-Man’s long-winded intro.

 

“I doubt that,” Wade said flatly, turning back to the stage. He’d long since had his fill of guys who just wanted to be fucked by someone who looked like an evil _monster_ of a man. And of guys who just had an ugly-fetish.

 

Maybe Weas picked up on that despite the dinning music and being busy making more drinks, because he didn’t push it any further, which was entirely unlike him.

 

“. . . our first dancer of the evening: Big McLarge-Huge!”

 

When Stan-the-Man finished with a flourish and a piercing squeal of feedback, the patrons applauded politely, and a shortish, dark-haired guy who . . . certainly lived up to what Wade _hoped_ was a stage-name, bounded out onto the stage in a Tarzan-outfit—complete with a stuffed, toy gorilla under one arm—and began to do the Electric Slide in the relatively limited stage-space.

 

{This is gonna be a weird and long-ass night,} Yellow predicted, and for once, White agreed with him instantly.

 

Wade, too, agreed, as the tear-away outfit—little more than a crooked loin-cloth with one fragile shoulder-strap—was ripped off the ridiculously-muscled Mr. McLarge-Huge, and slung at Stan-the-Man, who fumbled with his records or CDs or whatever, and the song abruptly switched from _Eye of the Tiger_ , to _Maple Leaf Rag_.

 

Wade’s _maternal grandfather_ had called that song an ‘old classic.’

 

It was nearly a minute of Mr. McLarge-Huge gyrating nervously, but enthusiastically to Scott Joplin, before Stan-the-Man got Frank Stallone back on the sound-system, louder than ever. And to no appreciable change in Mr. McLarge-Huge’s rhythmless bumping and grinding.

 

[A weird, long-ass night, indeed.] White sighed.

 

#

 

And it was.

 

It _really_ , _really_ was.

 

During the intermission, after about two hours and five Buds served by the leering and unsubtle _Cruz_ , Wade made his way from his small table across the club, back to the bar to shoot the shit with Weas. But _everybody_ had flocked to the bar since the servers took their breaks when the dancers did, for some weird reason. Weas was _far_ too busy to talk. He merely shoved another beer at Wade—a Corona, this time . . . sans lime—and set about making a gin and tonic for a guy who looked like he could’ve been _twice_ Stan-the-Man’s age, all rubbery, wrinkled features and gin-blossoms framing a nose like an ant-eater.

 

The old guy glanced over at Wade, caught him staring, and grinned. The few teeth that grin revealed were _not_ doing well.

 

“You lookin’ for comp'ny, tonight, Gruesome?” he creaked out, waggling his bushy, white brows and winking. “I can do this thing us Merchant Marines used to call the _Manassas Melt-Down_ , where I take your pecker, and—”

 

“Uh, sorry! I’m dating the bartender!” Wade said quickly, blowing a quick kiss at Weas—who didn’t even seem to notice—and shuddering as he grabbed his awful, Mexican piss-water then shoved through the crowd toward a lone booth near the speakers . . . and thus habitually untenanted.

 

And despite the damage to his hearing— _I’ll heal . . . I’ll heal_ , he told himself repeatedly, crouching down low in his booth so as to catch neither Grandfather Time's, nor Cruz’s eyes—he stayed there, nursing his Corona and praying for death: either his own, or Weas’s . . . Wade wasn’t picky at the moment.

 

#

 

An hour and thirty-seven minutes later, by Wade’s cerulean-and-gold, vintage _Lisa Frank_ watch, Stan-the-Man announced a “brief break” before the last two dancers of the night. The other patrons groaned, but stayed put for the most part.

 

Wade took his chance to scurry to the bar and Weas, who was making red, fruity-looking—in _every_ conceivable sense of the word—cocktails for two guys who looked like bearded, but flannel-less lumberjacks on ‘roids. He nodded at the guys when they paid, left a generous tip, then minced away with their cocktails, which one of them loudly, lispingly declared _fabu_.

 

“So . . . havin’ a good time yet, Wilson?”

 

“ _Fabu_ ,” Wade replied dryly, putting his empty Corona bottle on the bar. Weas whisked it away and replaced it with another, fancier bottle. Wade picked it up, looked at it, then whistled before he took a sip. It was _good_.

 

“Sapporo, eh? Fancy-pants. What’s the occasion?”

 

Weas grinned. “Because _one of us_ is gonna get his dick wet, tonight. _That’s_ the occasion.”

 

“You sound _way_ more sure than you did before,” Wade noted curiously.

 

“Yep! That’s because while you were in the ear-bleed booth, trying to hide from elderly pervs and amorous servers, _I_ was gettin' chatted up by my gorgeous guy. He gave me the ol’ hairy eyeball non-stop and mentioned us maybe hangin’ out after the club . . . chillin’ at his and Peter’s place.” Another eyebrow-wiggle. “Maybe I’ll even get a threesome goin’.”

 

Wade frowned. “Who’s _Peter_? His boyfriend?”

 

“His _roommate_. Peter works here, too, actually. He’ll be up on stage next, shakin’ it. _He’s_ got a pretty nice ass, too,” Weas mused, then shook his head. “But I’m not _countin’_ on that threesome—I just wanna get _Eugene_ on his knees. And his stomach. And his back.”

 

“His name’s _Eugene_?” Wade snickered and Weas gave him a lofty look.

 

“Yeah. Eugene Thompson. I happen to think that’s a pretty nifty name,” he opined rather defensively.

 

“You _would . . ._ _Weasel-Aloysius_.” Wade was chortling, now, and Weas tried to take back the Sapporo. But Wade’s reflexes had him snatching it away before Weas even got his slow-ass arm in gear. “Eh, calm down, Weas, I’m just yankin’ your chain.”

 

“Gee, that’s swell of ya, pal. Why don’tcha go back to your ear-bleed booth and get ready to yank somethin’ _else_. Peter’s up next, and he’s _totally_ your type. You know—” Weas sneered. “When you’re not getting railed by Elvis look-alikes while kidnapped platypi look on in horror and dying innocence.”

 

Wade blushed, eyes narrowing. “I hate you.”

 

“Feeling’s entirely mutual, Wilson.”

 

Wade snorted and Weas shot him a wry grin. “Go on, before someone steals your seat. Peter’s gettin' kinda popular—not as popular as _Eugene_ , but still. Big doe-eyes, _great hair_. He looks like hot jailbait and he’s _built_ like an _acrobat_. Bendy as shit. Sexy, if you’re into that. And I _know_ you are.”

 

“Maybe,” Wade said, trying to sound bored to cover up his tentative curiosity and interest. With an ironic salute to his best friend, he sauntered back to his booth, swerving sharply to avoid bumping into an increasingly slimy Cruz, who leered at him and licked his lips.

 

{Only two more dancers, then we can fuck off home and binge-watch _Kitchen Nightmares_ till we fall asleep,} Yellow said wearily as Wade sat down. A minute later, Stan-the-Man was announcing the next dancer.

 

Wade peeled his eyes and, despite himself, got his hopes up that there’d at last be some eye-candy worth _looking_ _at_ , after all.

 

Stan-the-Man spun the next record. Music blared at Wade like that old _Maxell_ Blown Away commercial.

 

“ _Love hurts/ Love scars/ Love wounds/ And marks/ Any heart. . . ._ ”

 

{Ugh, _Nazareth_? _Really_? _Hair of the Dog_ was a shit album _nine million years ago_ and it’s a shit album _now!}_

Wade couldn’t have agreed more. At first he was stunned, then absolutely _disgusted_ by the musical choice. He certainly hoped this _Peter_ made up for his awful taste in music.

 

[Though, with a stage-name like “Flash,” the odds aren’t good that he will,] White pointed out.

 

And sure enough, a second later, a tall, tan, solidly ripped young man with white-blond hair and somewhat darker stubble, and a face like a movie-cowboy, strode out onto the stage, already confidently prowling, slowly and sinuously swinging his hips, and popping his muscular ass as he did. His outfit was, indeed, that of a cowboy. An _urban_ cowboy, anyway: straight-legged blue jeans, not unlike Wade's, a blue work-shirt under a brown suede vest, a belt with a huge buckle, and a battered, off-white Stetson that actually looked like the real-deal.

 

The boots on his feet, however, looked like _Urban Outfitters’_ idea of cowboy boots, and kind of ruined the costume.

 

Peter nodded at the audience, a small smirk on his pouty, sensual lips, and began to dance—to freaking _Love Hurts_ —and somehow . . . _somehow_ , he pulled off a strip-tease to the slow, shitty song, without anyone in the audience cracking a smirk. Not even _Wade_.

 

In fact, like the rest of the audience, he was  _riveted_.

 

Because even though Peter was very much _not_ Wade’s type—Wade liked ‘em pale, with dark eyes and dark hair . . . how _Weas_ , after all their years of friendship, could think this _Peter_ was _Wade’s_ type was baffling—he could easily appreciate how attractive and confident the young man was, and how hypnotically he moved.

 

Though, if anything, _Peter_ was more _Weas’s_ type. So much so, that Wade began to wonder what this _Eugene_ had that would’ve kept Weas from sniffing after _Peter_!

 

When the song—thankfully—ended, Peter was mostly-naked, but for the Stetson and a brown suede-like thong that matched the discarded vest on the stage.

 

The audience went _insane_.

 

Peter grinned, charming and wide, and bent to pick up his clothing—and his money . . there was a _lot_ of it, _none_ of it small bills, from what Wade could tell—giving the patrons plenty of lengthy looks at his ass.

 

They cheered even harder, more than a few calling for an _encore_ as they tossed out more bills.

 

But Stan-the-Man was already announcing the final dancer—Weas’s precious _Eugene,_ Wade supposed—so Peter hurried off stage with a final wave and teasing shake of his tanned ass.

 

The next song started playing, trippy, far-out synths blasting Wade back into his seat once more.

 

“ _It's poetry in motion!/ She turned her tender eyes to me,/ As deep as any ocean,/ As sweet as any harmony./ Mm, but she blinded me with science!/ ‘She blinded me with science!’_ ”

 

As Thomas Dolby belted out his greatest hit, Eugene Thompson (a.k.a. “Dr. Love,” according to Stan-the-Man), bounced out onto stage in tan khakis, a white-button-down shirt complete with a _pocket-protector and pens_ , a bow-tie, a lab-coat and stethoscope, and plain, Buddy Holly-style black glasses. On his feet were a pair of red sneakers that looked worn-in and comfortable.

 

(Unlike the boots  _Peter_  had worn with his costume, Eugene's sneakers somehow made _this_  costume . . . quaint but believable. It was a _personal_ touch that Wade appreciated. Or _would’ve_ if he weren’t busy appreciating the _rest_ of Eugene Thompson.)

 

And _unlike Peter_ , Eugene _did_ , in fact, look like jailbait. He had a very boyish, earnest, fine-featured face, with huge, dark eyes and unruly chestnut hair that flopped onto his clear brow as he danced energetically. He swung on and off the largely ignored pole at the left edge of the stage, and contorted himself in ways that should’ve been _impossible_ for someone with a spinal column and bones.

 

 _Unlike_ Peter, _Eugene_ looked and moved like _he_ might be _actually_ _be_ an acrobat, from his loose-limbed, graceful strut, to his every fluid gesture, gyration, and gesticulation.

 

And, dancing aside, Weas had been right. Eugene was truly _gorgeous_. The sexiest guy in the whole damn establishment. Maybe the whole damn _world_. Not in the same way _Peter_ had been—neither tall nor spectacularly ripped, Eugene was average height, five-nine, maybe five-ten, and leanly-muscled. Wade could tell even before the clothes started to come off—but there was something undefinable but  _equally_ hypnotic about him that totally eclipsed Peter's aggressive, in-your-face sexiness.

 

Then the stripping started, and if Wade had thought he could barely look away from Eugene’s sweet, almost _pretty_ face—was Wade mistaken, or did those liquid-dark eyes meet his more than once and _linger_?—he had another think coming when the tear-away shirt and clip-on bow-tie ended up on the stage, followed shortly thereafter by the tear-away khakis.

 

Leaving Wade, White, and Yellow speechless and gaping. All three of them.

 

Eugene’s body . . . his _body_ was every bit as fantastic as Weas’d boasted, just not in the way Wade had expected his beefcake-loving friend to appreciate. Sleek, creamy-pale, hairless in _all_ the right places (either through nature or _Nair,_ not that Wade cared), with the right amount of definition in shoulders, chest, arms, and abs . . . not to mention the long, quivering muscles of his _thighs_. . . .

 

{He’s . . . he’s . . . too pure and perfect for this world!} Yellow whispered, uncharacteristically stricken-sounding

 

[Well, holy fuck,] White huffed incredulously and without precedent, shocking even Yellow into stunned disbelief and silence.

 

But Wade merely sighed, because both Boxes were right. Eugene Thompson was fucking _ethereal_ beyond all common adjectives. He was the loveliest person Wade had _ever_ seen. And sexy, _yes_ , even as he was simultaneously sweet and . . . _angelic-looking_.

 

Eugene Thompson was everything Weas’d said and _more_. He was—

 

—he was the guy _Wade’s best friend_ had the _worst_ crush on.

 

Wade realized this by the last refrain of the song, just as Eugene’s eyes met his again— _lingering_ , again . . . Wade _wasn’t_ imagining it—and the kid smiled a quirky, friendly little smile and winked playfully as he smoothly pretzeled his body around the smudged brass pole, in nothing but a red and blue thong, and those clunky glasses.

 

Flushing, Wade looked away from Eugene—from his best friend's guy—and stood up, heading for the bar before the song had finished playing. Before Eugene Thompson finished his dance. Before he even looked away from _Wade,_ as a matter of fact.

 

Even though he couldn’t get drunk and _knew_ that, Wade suddenly needed a drink _very_ badly.

 

Mild, scattered applause— _Are those fuckers_ blind _?!_ _Did they not see the same strip-tease_ I _saw?!—_ followed Wade all the way to the bar where Weas took one long, knowing look at him, and poured him a scotch-rocks from a top shelf-bottle.

 

#

 

By the time last-call rolled around and most of the patrons had left, Wade was on his _tenth_ scotch-rocks. Not that it mattered.

 

The gesture made him feel better, at least, so that was _something_. And anyway it wasn’t like he was hurting for discretionary funds, even with the grenade-launcher in his sights. And even if he had been, Weas’d always had his back when it came to free shit to drink. _Especially_  back when Wade could actually _get drunk._

 

{Being a mutant licks huge, hairy sac, man,} Yellow complained for the trillionth time.

 

[Best get used to it, hadn’t you? Since we’ll _be_ a mutant for a longer time than we can even imagine,] White replied, stolid, like always.

 

Wade sighed again, hanging his head. _You guys are really harshing my_ mellow.

 

{ _What_ mellow?}

 

Meanwhile, Weas was busy serving latecomers and late-stayers, barely pausing to talk to Wade while he worked. Not that Wade was in any mood to _chat_. _Especially_  with Weas, who’d undoubtedly want to talk about _Eugene_.

 

{And who _wouldn’t_?} Yellow sounded ridiculously love-struck. {He’s fucking _dreamy_. . . .}

 

[Yes, well, that means we have to wake up, _eventually_ , doesn’t it? Better sooner, rather than later. Weasel’s our only friend from before Weapon X made us a freak. We can’t afford to alienate him by . . . showing interest in his . . . paramour. No matter _how_ preternaturally lovely he is,] White reasoned delicately, but not very convincingly.

 

Wade snorted. _Yeah, whatever. He wasn’t that great, anyway. I mean, that Peter-guy . . . he was fuckin’_ Hollywood _-handsome. Like James Dean-meets-Cary Grant-meets-Gary Cooper. And_ super _-buff. Not as buff as_ me _, but still. He was more than_ a’ight, Wade told his eternal companions.

 

White merely sniffed and went silent, while Yellow sighed. {Peter is a _consolation prize_. _Eugene Thompson_ is a fallen _angel_. Only without the fallen-part. Maybe he just—I dunno, is taking a vacay from Heaven, or some shit. But there’s no way he’s an _ordinary_  person. _Nothing_ about Eugene is ordinary, I’ll bet. Didja see his _ass_? _Holy God! The perfection!_ }

 

_Not helping, Yellow._

 

{Sue me. When’ve you known me to _lie_ to you? That’s _your_ job, bruh.}

 

Wade grumbled at the blunt Box and hunched down lower over his scotch, glaring into the mirror over the liquor shelves. A monstrous freak glared right back at him, till he looked away. Into the bottom of his emptying glass, as if it had either solutions or comfort. . . .

 

“So,” Weas said suddenly, maybe half an hour later, after pretty much everyone but the hardcore drinkers and stripper-stalkers had gone. Wade looked up at his buzzingly-happy best friend and tried to smile.

 

“A needle pulling thread . . . what’s your point?”

 

Weas grinned. “Tonight is _definitely_ The Night. Eugene’s into it—like, _so_ into it—but there’s a catch.” He made an awkward face. “Peter’s totally _not_ interested in a threesome and the walls in their apartment are kinda thin, so . . . the thing is, Peter usually spends the night at his aunt’s when Eugene brings someone home—”

 

“Does that often, does he?” Wade sneered angrily, a spike of jealousy nearly cleaving him in two.

 

“No, _asshole_ , he doesn’t.” Weas glowered, seeming genuinely offended on Eugene’s behalf. But then, who _wouldn’t_ be for someone who exuded such wholesomeness and goodness? Such _sweetness?_  “But when he does, Peter—he’s got hearing like a damn _bat_ —goes to stay with his aunt for the night. But he doesn’t wanna do that _tonight_ because it’s so late, such short notice, and she works _real_ early, yadda-yadda.” That glare melted into Weas’s shit-eatingest grin again. “So I was wondering if he could, uh . . . maybe crash at _your_ place.”

 

Wade blinked. “ _What_?”

 

Weas’s grin grew pleading. “ _C’mon_ , Wilson, you’re my _wingman_ —or were, back in the day, before those assholes fucked you over—so I’m askin’ you to, you know, let him sleep on your couch or somethin’. You don’t even have to _fuck_ him, if you’re not down with that—though, seriously? I totally had him pegged for your type—just let him chill at your digs till mid-morning!”

 

Wade groaned. “ _Jesus_ , Weas, I don’t want the _Marlboro_ Man takin’ up space in my place! And you’re right. I _don’t_ wanna fuck him. And even if I _did_ , have you _seen me_ , lately?” He waved at his scarred, uneven face. “Cap’n America, Jr., wouldn’t _touch_ this, or let it touch _him_ with a ten-foot pole!”

 

Weas gave him a weird, slightly confused look. Then shook his head. “Listen, Wade, I’m in _serious shit_ , here. More’n I’ve _ever_ been in. Hell, it may even be the _l-word_ , by now,” he said desperately. Wade frowned.

 

“You . . . _love him_?” he asked, but already understanding how anyone, even _Weas_ , who’d never been in love _once_ in his thirty-six years, could love someone like Eugene Thompson. The hard thing was going to be figuring out how _not_ to love him, Wade realized with something like despair.

 

Because he _didn’t_ _love_ Eugene—of _course_ he didn’t. He’d seen the man for less than five minutes and made eye-contact with him for maybe twenty seconds, all-told—no, but he’d felt a powerful _potential_ when he’d looked into those deep, dark eyes. Something long-denied and long-buried within Wade had sat up and taken _notice_.

 

Eugene Thompson was _special,_  alright . . . and he would never, _ever_ be _Wade’s_.

 

“ _Love_?” Weas blew Wade a raspberry and made a jerking-off gesture. “ _Fuck_ that shit. _The Weas_ don’t do feels. No, I meant _lust_ , Wilson. Like, gut-clenching, dick-hardening, _sweaty-balled lust_. And if I don’t get to put my dick in, on, or _near_ Eugene tonight, and come several times while doing so, I may just _die_. And it’ll be _all_ your fault.”

 

{We know _that_ feeling,} Yellow lamented quietly, and Wade and White ignored him.

 

“I thought you were gonna take Eugene to _your_ place, anyway?” Wade temporized, trying to think his way out of the Urban Cowboy bunking with him, even if it was only for five or six hours.

 

“Well, I _was_ , but, uh . . . he mentioned that he’s got . . . well, _toys_ . . . _very interesting_ toys back at his place and . . . _fuck_ , Wade.” Weas sighed dreamily. “You _know_ I’m a sucker for a guy that comes with his own add-ons, plug-ins, and extensions!”

 

In the forefront of Wade’s brain, Yellow made a strangled, choking noise. In the _back_ of Wade’s brain, White merely heaved a morose, regretful sigh.

 

“When was the last time I asked you for somethin’, bro?” Weas asked, suddenly changing tactics and making ridiculous puppy-eyes that would’ve been more suited to Eugene's innocent face. Wade shook his head.

 

“Can’t even remember, Weas.”

 

“Right. It’s been _that_ long. So, just . . . take one for the team, huh? Maybe you don’t even have to take Peter _home_ with you, just . . . take him to the _Lyric Diner_ for an early breakfast and shoot the shit for a few hours. I just need from now, till, like, maybe eight-thirty, nine o’clock.”

 

Wade heaved a heavy sigh, himself. “ _Weas_. . . .” he whined. The last thing he wanted was Mr. Hollywood-Handsome boring him to tears over a substandard breakfast while Wade ate his heart out over Eugene.

 

“Tell ya what: That Soviet shoulder-cannon? I’ll knock off _twenty_ percent, instead of fifteen. ‘S’at change your mind?” Weas was waggling his eyebrows yet again, grinning like he knew he had Wade’s number.

 

Bitch of it _was_ . . . he _did_.

 

“ _Twenty-five_ percent, but I’m _not_ taking Boner McDental-Floss home with me. We’ll just have to hang out at the diner or go to Tompkins Square Park, or something.”

 

“Deal-ski.” Weas took the hand Wade held out and they shook. Then Weas poured Wade another pointless scotch-rocks and himself another shot—he may not have had Wade’s healing factor, but Weas had a typical _Hammer’s_ alcohol-tolerance, and that was _saying something_ —and they toasted their deal before each knocked back his drink in one swallow.

 

Wade was crunching on a stray ice cube when a smooth, amused tenor spoke from just behind him, startling him into almost sucking the cube down his wind-pipe.

 

“Gee, I hope you’re not driving, tonight, Wade.”

 

Spinning around on his stool and forcing the ice cube down the _correct_ pipe, Wade found himself face-to-face with none other than _Eugene Thompson_ and, standing slightly behind him and dressed in charcoal business casual-wear, Peter.

 

Up close, Eugene was even _more_ devastating than he’d been on stage, his thick, glossy dark hair a mess all over his forehead, almost curtaining his long-lashed, umber eyes. His high cheekbones were touched with faint pink, as if he’d just heard something subtly risqué. And that perfect rose of a mouth . . . those _lips_ were slightly parted as if in expectation and excitement.

 

“Uh,” Wade said intelligently, blinking and running his gaze reflexively down and up Eugene Thompson—he was dressed in civvies of black skinny-jeans, an olive-colored Neutral Milk Hotel tour-shirt, a grey windbreaker, and the same broken-in, red sneakers he’d danced in . . . but no glasses—before meeting those brilliant, beautiful eyes again. They were still friendly and playful, but also mildly concerned. Wade suddenly remembered what Eugene had asked him. “Oh! Um. No. I don’t. A car. Have. Walk. A lot. I do. Or subways. Take.”

 

Eugene’s dark, straight brows lifted gently at Wade’s impersonation of Yoda and behind him, Peter smirked knowingly, eyes darting between his roommate and Wade.

 

“Oh,” Eugene said softly, almost breathlessly, smiling a winsome, slightly goofy smile that was _far_ too endearing. His mouth was such a vibrant coral-pink, Wade wondered if he was wearing lip-gloss or something. “Well, okay, then. I guess we’ll just have to be careful on the train back to, um, wherever you live.”

 

“Yeah.” Wade was quick to agree. Then: “Wait—what?”

 

“Hey, baby!” Weas called from their right, having come from around the bar. He approached Wade, Eugene, and Peter, arms open and smiling. “You were _great_ tonight. Sexy as _fuck_! And those _moves_. . . .”

 

Weas made a weird, almost purring grumble as he stopped in front of Eugene and Peter, nodding at Eugene politely, but almost dismissively, before turning to Peter and moving in to pull the other man into his arms for a _shockingly_ lewd kiss that Peter moaned and giggled into, pressing his body flush against Weas’s.

 

Peter was, Wade noticed even in his surprise, exactly Weas’s height.

 

{Hey! Aren't _we_  supposed to be his future drunken-mistake? Not Weas?} Yellow demanded angrily.

 

[Yellow has a point,] White admitted grudgingly. [And really, it’s the _principle_ of the thing. Weasel already has _Eugene_. Going after Peter is just plain _greedy_.]

 

{Fuckin’-A!}

 

Wade couldn’t agree more, nodding that agreement even as his despair turned to outright confusion, because . . . Weas was kissing Peter _in front_ of Eugene, and. . . .

 

“Wait— _what_?” Wade finally asked again— _demanded_. “What the actual  _fuck_?”

 

Weas didn’t even stop kissing Peter— _devouring his face_ —to answer Wade, who then looked to _Eugene_ for answers. But Eugene was merely shaking his head in amusement as he gazed almost enviously at the pair.

 

“I totally lost on the hookup betting-pool the other dancers had going for them, y’know,” he said cheerily. “Fifty bucks. But, eh. It’s worth it to see Flash happy. He’s my best friend—and has been since he was _just Eugene_ —after all, and he deserves it.”

 

Wade frowned and in his brain White was unusually silent in a sort of confused standby-mode. _Yellow_ was so ramskazzled he started singing _John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt_ in a quiet, shaky little voice, trying to get to his Happy Place.

 

“Eugene?” Wade asked, and Eugene glanced at him briefly, then again, less briefly, looking worried. “You called _him_  Eugene?”

 

“Yeah—well, I mean, it’s his _name_ , so . . . his _real_ name, that is. _Flash_ is his stage-name  _and_ nickname, so he really _hates_ _it_ when anyone calls him _Eugene_. Though, he lets Weasel get away with it, like, _all_ the time,” _Eugene_? Leaned in to stage-whisper. Wade got a whiff of some light, subtly masculine cologne or aftershave, the scent of which wrapped itself around his olfactory sense before branding itself onto his memory as _Eugene’s scent_ forever.

 

“ _His_ . . . name?” This fell from Wade’s confused brain and tripped off his numb lips. And he couldn’t seem to stop blinking rapidly. Eugene’s concern became even more apparent.

 

“ _Yes_ , Wade. _Flash_ is just what he _tells_ everyone to call him. Since he and I were, like, in middle school. His _real_ name’s just plain, ol’ _Eugene Thompson._  Of Jackson Heights, Queens.”

 

“I _heard_ that, Parker,” Peter—or _was_ it _Eugene_? Wade didn’t even _know_. He was _very_ confused and couldn’t _even_ —tore himself away from Weas’s face to say lazily, his own face flushed and lips swollen. Weas was in much the same state, looking dazed and happy, his arms still tight around his partner. “You’re just mad that _I_ at least _have_ a nickname. You’re stuck being just boring _Petey Parker_.”

 

“It doesn’t count if _you_ gave _yourself_ the nickname, then beat up everyone who called you _Eugene_ , Eugene.” This from . . . _Peter_? _Whoever_ the fuck was standing in front of Wade.

 

“You break _one_ kid’s nose when you’re eleven, and you get a rep for life,” Weas’s squeeze . . . _Eugene_ . . . said, still lazy and kind of smug, even as . . . _Peter_? Absently reached up to run ginger fingers down his own oh, so slightly crooked, but pertly upturned nose. “Whatever, Pete. I’m too much of a _genteel_ _diva_ , these days, to _brawl_ with you over a name, like we’re in sixth grade again. However,” he added in his faintly flame-y, almost-baritone, “I’m _not_ above throwing a red sock in with all your white laundry when you’re not looking, baby-doll.”

 

 _Peter’s_? Jaw dropped in faux-outrage. “You _wouldn’t_!”

 

“Bitch, _please_ . . . you _know_ I would. In a heartbeat, sweetie.” Eugene was smirking, now. But then Weas was practically growling as he pulled Eugene back against him.

 

“God, baby, you’re so _hot_ when you’re _spiteful_ ,” he breathed. And before Eugene’s smirk could widen more than a tick, Weas was kissing him _again_ , hard and _nasty_. Eugene submitted to the kiss with a soft moan high in his throat, his arms wrapping around Weas’s neck.

 

Wade, meanwhile, was glancing back and forth between both dancers, his mouth hanging open as his brain still tried to process. White was slowly rebooting, coming back online with a considering hum, while Yellow had stopped singing and was just mumbling: {Oh, my God! This is like _Face/Off_! _Just like Face/Off. . ._!}

 

[It’s really not,] White said slowly. [No one here has traded faces. And the plot of _this_ story is _slightly_ less ludicrous and unlikely than _Face/Off’s._ So, no. No face-trading has transpired. But perhaps . . . _shift_ -trading. . . ?]

 

Wade blinked again, realizing that he’d stopped, at some point, and had been holding his breath, too. So he let it out, and on the back of it was: “You were supposed to go on _before_ Eugene.”

 

Peter glanced at Wade again, smiling sheepishly and shyly. “Yeah, usually I _do_. I mean, you’ve _seen_ his routine, right? _My_ scrawny, nerdy, hyperactive ass can’t compete with _that_! _No one_ wants to go on after _Flash!_ He’s the show-stopper. But, uh . . . I was late for my shift. Didn’t get here till just after Flash hadda take my spot. I arrived literally _minutes_ before I had to go take _his_. But it's totally _not_ my fault! I was only late because I had this . . . _thing_ for my biochem class . . . my professor’s being a real douche-canoe about this group assignment-bullshit, and—”

 

“So . . . _you’re Peter_ ,” Wade interrupted the rambling explanation to say, needing to make sure everyone was on the same page, at last. Peter’s perfect brows lifted again.

 

“ _Yeeeees_ ,” he said slowly, giving Wade a wary look. “Peter Parker. And _you’re_ Wade Wilson. Weasel’s told me about you. It’s really great to meet you, at last.” He smiled a little. “I was actually beginning to think he'd made you up.”

 

“Oh, I’m _real_ , Baby Boy, I just, uh . . . I don’t go to places like this, much,” Wade said automatically.

 

“So Weasel’s told me.” Peter seemed amused once again. “ _I’d_ never been to a strip-club till I applied to work _here,_ six months ago.” He shrugged nonchalantly. “Like the great sage once said: ‘Every day is a winding road.’”

 

Wade found himself smiling. “’These _are_ the days when _anything_ goes,’” he replied and Peter laughed. It was a steady _ha-ha-ha!_ from the back of his throat, just a little nasally in that way Wade associated with life-long _New Yawkers_. It was as endearing as his lovely/goofy smile.

 

{Hey,} Yellow said hesitantly, hopefully. {I _think_  . . . that _this guy’s_ actually Peter and that cowboy-looking motherfucker’s Weas’s boy, _Eugene_! And maybe they, I dunno, switched shifts, or something!}

 

White groaned and retreated into annoyed silence, and Wade rolled his eyes.

 

 _Yeah, Yellow, buddy . . . I think you might be right_ , he thought kindly, indulgently at the unobservant Box. _Gold star for you._

 

“So. You— _Peter Parker_ —are roommates and work-mates with _him_ —Eugene Thompson,” Wade said, wanting to be perfectly clear because somehow . . . somehow he just _couldn’t_ wrap his mind around the fact that his best friend was _not_ interested in the most beautiful, radiantly _pure_ person either of them would probably ever meet.

 

“Yep. Um. _Just_ roommates and work-mates. And friends. But that’s _all_ ,” Peter added quickly, his cheeks pinking further. Wade was . . . utterly _enchanted_. And he’d _never_ before used that word to describe himself _to_ himself, let alone in response to someone _else_.

 

But, then . . . he’d never met anyone like _Peter_ _Parker_ , before, either.

 

“Oh. Okay. That’s good,” Wade said, then realized how it sounded, and stammered and back-pedaled. “What I mean is, it’s, uh, _good_ to have friends, and shit. _Especially_ friends you can switch shifts at the strip-club with, because that’s, uh, not at _all_ a confusing or too-convenient thing to have happen just for the purposes of the  _plot_ , but, whatever . . . say! Here’s an idea: Wanna come with me to the _Lyric Diner_ at Twenty-Third and Third?” he blurted out suddenly, glancing away from Peter’s attentive face and at Weas and Eugene who were _still_ going at it _hardcore_. Wade couldn’t help, for a moment, imagining what it’d be like to go at it like that with _Peter_. . . .

 

Then he was blushing and clearing his throat as he looked at the other man, who was blushing, too, for some reason, and staring down at his red sneakers.

 

“That, um . . . that sounds nice. And, uh, not just because of. . . .” Peter waved a hand at Weas and Eugene, who were practically climbing each other, now. “Though I gotta say, not being in the apartment while _that_ happens one wall away is a _definite_ plus.”

 

And he made such an aggrieved and grossed-out face, Wade burst out laughing and didn’t stop even after Weas and Eugene broke their kiss to give him matching irritated looks.

 

But _Peter_ . . . Peter just smiled his lovely/goofy smile, and covered his mouth. A few nasally, _New Yawk_ -giggles escaped, nonetheless.

 

#

 

When the club was shut down for the day, it was nearly four a.m.

 

Wade and Peter, and Weas and Eugene stepped out of the club ahead of the owner/manager, not staying to watch him set the alarm, his hawkish, keen face etched into a fierce glower as he muttered to himself.

 

“Mordecai’s probably got ulcers _on top_ of his ulcers. Dude needs to take a chill-pill,” Weas said sadly, his arm around Eugene’s shoulders sliding down till Weas was absently, but possessively squeezing Eugene’s ass. Eugene, for his part, didn’t seem to mind at all, leaning into Weas with a soft, humming sigh.

 

Just behind the happily lustful pair, Wade and Peter walked, neither far apart nor close together, stealing furtive, but smiling glances at each other and not speaking.

 

When the pairs reached the corner, Weas and Eugene turned north, toward Peter and Eugene’s apartment in the Bronx.

 

“ _Hasta la pasta_ , Peter. Wilson . . . I'll see ya when I see ya,” Weas tossed over his shoulder as he and Eugene, practically arc-welded together, strolled off for the nearest cross-town subway station.

 

“Twenty-five percent!” Wade called after them. Weas raised a hand in acknowledgement, but didn’t slow his and Eugene’s roll.

 

When the couple had crossed the avenue at the next corner, heading northwest for Port Authority and the eastbound 7-train, most likely, Wade and Peter at last turned to each other, both smiling, still, but acting decidedly awkward.

 

“Um. Twenty-five percent of _what_?” Peter asked. Wade shrugged.

 

“Oh! Uh, it’s . . . this thing . . . um. That’s how we say _see ya later, buddy!_  in Saskatchewan, don’tcha know?”

 

Peter’s brow furrowed. “Really? Huh. Learn something new every day.”

 

Wade turned red and cleared his throat. “Uh. Ha. True. Regina’s a real _friendly_ place, everyone always sayin' _twenty-five percent!_ to each other and shit. Um. Yeah.”

 

“Look, Wade, you don’t . . . you don’t _have_ to babysit me till _my_ best friend and _your_ best friend stop fucking each other so I can go home,” Peter said suddenly, blinking up at Wade with those earnest, wide eyes. “I mean, _thank you_ for being willing to hang out with me and keep me company for a few hours, but I’m sure you must be tired and not in any mood to hang out with a near-stranger at a diner, at four in the morning. You probably wanna go to sleep or something.”

 

“I don’t sleep much,” Wade replied, shrugging again. It was true. “And, uh, well. I’m kinda hungry, _anyway_. And it’s _boring_ eating alone. And you seem _really_ , um . . . anyway, _I_ don’t mind hangin’ out with you wherever, until whenever you’re ready to go. Unless, um. Unless you don’t _wanna_ hang around with me, which, you know, I _totally_ understand.” He gestured at his face briefly. Peter’s brow furrowed again, his mouth thinning grimly as he stared up into Wade’s eyes steadily, intently. Till Wade wanted only one thing more than he wanted to look away, and that was to stare into those open, empathetic, somehow _innocent_ eyes forever.

 

“Why wouldn’t I wanna hang around with you, Wade?” Peter asked gently, without inflection, and Wade flushed uncomfortably.

 

“Most people don’t wanna be seen anywhere _near_ this mug, Pete. _Most people_ wouldn’t be able to keep their fuckin'  _appetites_ around it,” he said bitterly . . . more so than he had in almost three years.

 

{But you’re _so over_ the fact that you look like a testicle with teeth, right?} Yellow snarked, but said no more after White shushed him almost gently.

 

Peter tilted his head slightly and those eyebrows quirked up. “Well. Good thing for us both that  _I’m_ not _most people_ ,” he said simply, taking Wade’s right arm and leaning into him just a bit. He was _incredibly_ warm for such a chilly fall night and such a thin, rayon windbreaker.

 

“Peter,” Wade murmured, frowning down at the top of Peter’s head. Then Peter was looking up at him again, smiling brilliantly. “I dunno if this is . . . kindness, or sympathy, or pity—or just that you’re too goddamn-fucking- _pure_ for your own _good_ , but—”

 

Wade didn’t even get to finish the thought, let alone the sentence, because Peter had bobbed up on his toes, lashes fluttering together to shutter those dark, pretty eyes, before they closed. Then _Wade’s_ eyes were closing, too, and Peter’s gentle, warm breath—redolent of _oranges_ , for some reason, light and sharp as sun-up in summer—ghosted over his mouth and nose before soft, very slightly chapped lips were pressing Wade’s tentatively.

 

Then a bit more firmly when Wade groaned low in his chest, his voice, as always, sounding like he’d gargled with gravel and gasoline.

 

Then firmer, _still_ , when Wade’s arms, including the one Peter was wrapped around, slid around him to pull him close, trapping Peter’s arm around his back.

 

For long moments, they stayed lightly pressed together, from lips to knees, in an embrace that was as warm and comfortable as it was electric and new.

 

Then Peter made a soft, hungry moan low in his throat and his lips parted a moment before Wade’s did. And then . . . _then_ Wade’s tongue teased Peter’s sweet, parted lips before slipping into his mouth to tickle his citrus-tart tongue. Peter made a high-pitched noise through his nose and pressed against Wade even harder, molding to him and clinging like a limpet as Wade explored his mouth slowly, but with singular zeal. At least until Peter, after some time had passed, surged up into the kiss like an Olympic swimmer out of a pool, and returned the favor with overwhelming enthusiasm.

 

Finally, the kiss ended when raucous, drunken laughter from at least an avenue over startled them both apart. They instinctively glanced west toward the laughter, tense and wary—ready for a fight, even—then looked back at each other almost shyly, but yearningly. After a minute passed this way, Wade reached up with his free hand and tipped Peter’s chin up, till Peter’s face was inclined perfectly toward his for another kiss . . . but instead, Wade brushed his callused thumb across Peter’s lower lip with wondering reverence.

 

“You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever met,” Wade husked in a voice gone rough with frustration and broken with snapping restraint. “Are you . . . are you an _angel_? Are you for _real_?”

 

Even in the yellow light from a nearby streetlamp, Peter’s blush was visible.

 

“Ah, go on,” he said, rolling his eyes, but looking pleased, nonetheless. Then he was blinking up at Wade almost dreamily. “You, however, are a rakishly _handsome_ man.”

 

Wade snorted, rueful, yet amused. “In _what_ fucked-up, alternate universe?”

 

“ _All_ of them. Including _this one_ ,” Peter said smiling brightly. The streetlamp didn’t hold a candle to that sweet, sunny, unrestrained beam. “You have the most intense, sharp, but _kind_ hazel eyes I’ve ever seen; bone-structure that’d make Michelangelo’s _David_ hang his head in shame; a fucking _brilliant_ , charming, debonair smile, and the scars, well,” Peter said, pausing for a few moments as his eyes scanned Wade’s face, pupils dilating visibly. Wade nonetheless held his breath again, waiting for the verdict. “The _scars_ add even _more_ character to a face that’s already strong and _noble_ with that— _and_ personality—in _spades_.”

 

Wade could only gape at Peter, who chuckled after several silent seconds had passed. Then he was stepping back a little, putting some space between their bodies—Wade _immediately_ missed the furnace-like _heat_ of him—and turning to face southeast, toward the _Lyric Diner_ and, incidentally, Wade’s apartment in Alphabet City.

 

“C’mon, Big Guy,” he murmured, urging Wade along after him like a tugboat pulling a barge out to sea. Wade could only follow Peter’s lead, since the other man seemed to know more about what the hell was going on than _Wade_ did. “Let’s go get breakfast and see where the morning takes us, hmm?”

 

“Uh . . . _yeah_. That sounds, um . . . _really good_.” Wade blushed again, feeling vaguely foolish but unusually happy. Almost _giddy_. And the _Boxes_ . . . well, for once, they seemed struck silent. Had been since they’d left the club. They were mere passengers inside Wade’s skull, instead of back-seat drivers. “Though, uh, if you’re in the mood for a big, good breakfast, um . . . I got the fixin’s for just about _anything_ you might want back at _m-my_ place. And I’m a better chef than the night-cook at the _Lyric_ ,” he added, nervously upbeat.

 

Peter didn’t look at him, this time, simply kept them walking southeast, humming thoughtfully for a minute as he stared at the ground. “Is that so?” he asked finally, quietly, sounding almost somber. Wade shivered and steeled himself.

 

“That’s _totally_ so, Baby Boy,” he said just as somberly, squeezing Peter’s slim, warm hand before linking their fingers together. “The so-est thing you’ll ever experience. And speaking of _experiences_ , you haven’t _lived_ till you’ve had my cheesy-sriracha eggs, maple-smoked sausage, and _churro_ pancakes with powdered sugar on top.”

 

Chuckling once more, Peter swung their hands, but kept his gaze aimed at the ground passing by beneath them.

 

“Oh, I _haven’t_ , have I?”

 

“Nope!”

 

“Hmm.”

 

Another street passed in silence, then Peter at last stopped and looked up, turning his wide, earnest, _trusting_ gaze to Wade’s. He seemed anxious, maybe even _scared_ . . . but resolute. Determined.

 

And so. Very. _Hungry_ . . . and not at _all_ for _churro_ pancakes with powdered sugar on top. . . .

 

“I think that’s the _best_ idea I’ve heard in a _long_ time, Wade Wilson. Just . . . the _best_ ,” Peter said, with that breath-taking sincerity of his. “Only one thing’d make it better, though.”

 

“Oh? What’s that?” Wade asked, obediently following along as Peter started them walking again.

 

“Well, maybe we could . . . _postpone_ breakfast until . . . _after_. And then we can eat in bed until we slip into a food-coma for a few hours. Then wake up. Then lather, rinse, repeat,” he added with admirable calm and ease. At least to _Wade_ , who was mentally doing back-flips and cartwheels with Yellow, while White simply shook his head and despaired of them both. “How’s _that_ sound?”

 

“Like a plan and a half,” Wade managed to croak out almost casually, around his stomach, which had lodged itself behind his larynx. “You’re a man after my own heart, Peter Parker.”

 

Peter flashed him that winsome grin, but instead of also being goofy, there was undeniable _heat_ in the expression, all the more potent for its bright yearning, and unhidden, _untried_ sensuality.

 

[Untried, yes,] White agreed sanguinely. [But not _naïve_. There’s _nothing_ naïve in this boy’s desire. It’s predatory and possessive, and it _radiates_ from him as strong and scorching as sunlight. He's _not_ looking for a one-night stand, here, and there's _every_ possibility that once he's had you, he'll _never_ let you go.]

 

 _Maybe I don't_ want _him to_ , Wade thought with painful, _wrenching_ honesty. Hell, he knew, even after such a short time, that if Peter wanted to _keep_ him, Wade would stay with him _forever_.

 

{Uh, what White means is: Peter Parker may be a  _virgin_ , but he’s _no_ _saint_. He’s probably got the libido, imagination, and sex-drive of a seasoned-nympho. Lucky _us_!} Yellow chirped, sounding insanely thrilled with that possibility. {And if he wants to _own_ us, as well as _fuck_ with us, he can do so with _my_ blessing, if no one else's.}

 

Meanwhile, Peter was still grinning up at Wade. “Yes. Your heart,” he said in that same calm voice. “Among other organs.”

 

Wade grinned back.

 

In fact, he grinned for the whole ride—Wade had quickly decided to call for a cab, because _fuck_ a _subway_ , he had a hot, _horny_ (gorgeous, sweet, and _amazing_ ) stripper with him, who wanted nothing more than to ride Wade’s rod into the sunrise, then nosh on brekkies till they fell asleep, probably after some _more_ rod-riding—to Alphabet City.

 

He grinned all the way up the three narrow flights of stairs to his tiny, Spartan, but _vermin-free_ apartment.

 

He grinned all the way to his king-sized _bed_ , even as Peter tried to lick and suck the lips off Wade’s face and strip the skin off Wade’s leaking, aching dick.

 

And—

 

 _And_ . . . by the time Wade’s enthusiastic dick _finally_ called a time-out for rest and refueling, breakfast (quickly thrown-together soft shell tacos) was practically _brunch_. But that was okay. Peter was too blissed-out and wrecked from riding Wade like a rodeo-cowboy to care, anyway. But Wade _still_ sucked Peter's dick after they ate. For, like, forty-seven minutes—till his jaw began to cramp—while edging his bossy, demanding young lover repeatedly.

 

It was kind of a wordless apology for the late and unimpressive meal.

 

And Peter _accepted_ that apology, first with a sharp, breathless gasp . . . then a broken, hoarse, _desperate_ cry as he came dry, and for the fifth time in as many hours. And then, finally, with limp, but uncommon graciousness and that lovely/goofy (sated) smile on his still-angelic, but not-so-innocent- _anymore_ face.

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: _ImSoVain: Driving in my car, I heard the song "I'm a Slave 4 U" by Britney Spears so this is inspired by that lol. Peter is a stripper and Wade goes to his club one night. That song comes on for Peter's opener and Wade is instantly drooling. The rest turns into one hell of a smutty night._
> 
>  
> 
> This was the best I could do, Fam. This story went its own way and just took me along for the ride. . . .
> 
> The rest of you mooks . . . [follow me on Tumblr](https://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com/)!


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